


The art of love

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (read notes on chapter 2 for that), Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Happy Ending, M/M, Mycroft and Sherlock try to be good brothers, Some pining, Vague historical setting, and play matchmaker, brotherly bickering, neither is very good at either, nothing dark though, slowish burn, some jealousy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: One would think, being an expert on seduction would make you an expert on the subject of love.Nothing further from the truth.





	1. A first meeting

**Author's Note:**

> So this… this is a little idea that’s been running inside my head and I finally got around writing it. It’s not very developed plot-wise since it’s not truly a ficlet; more like a scene from a longer fic, but I just wanted to scratch the itch, so I could focus on my other WIPs afterwards, but well… I don’t think it really worked out as I hoped it would and I really like what I’ve written so far so I thought I’d post it here ;)  
> Enjoy!

“Inspector Lestrade! What a nice surprise! What’s an upstanding citizen such as yourself doing in dingy brothel such as this?”

The Inspector offers him a tight little smile and Sherlock grins, amused. “Nice to see you as usual, Mr. Holmes.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Sherlock replies flippantly, dropping himself on the chair next to his, crossing his legs in such manner that the nightgown he’s wearing barely covers them. “But I doubt you came all the way here just to see me.”

“Do you? I’ve heard of several lords and ladies who not only do so, but in fact pay good money for the pleasure of gazing upon you.”

Sherlock laughs goodnaturedly, leaning back on his seat, giving the other man a better look of his legs. “And with good reason, I assure you. However, from what I’ve gathered, I’m really not your type.”

The Inspector huffs, shaking his head, looking more relaxed now. “And what would you say is my type then, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock exchanges a quick look with his brother. Mycroft’s shake of his head is nearly imperceptible, but the younger man ignores him merrily. “Older. Boringly serious.” He looks at Mycroft once more and smirks wickedly. “Ginger.”

“Right,” the Inspectors says, hurriedly standing up, blushing madly. “I must really be on my way.” He’s pointedly avoiding looking in Mycroft’s general direction and Sherlock is grinning madly. “As I said, it was nice to see you, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft,” he spares a quick glance at the older man, but doesn’t meet his eye and hurries out of the room, mumbling something under his breath.

The second the door closes after him, Sherlock breaks down in mad giggles.

“Very mature of you, bother dear,” Mycroft protests softly, not looking at him directly, his eyes scanning the documents he’s revising. “You’ll scare the man off and may I remind you he’s a valuable ally?”

Sherlock huffs, “ _ Valuable ally  _ is not what I’d call him,” he murmurs, still smiling. “That’s not why you like to keep him around, in any case.” Mycroft glares and Sherlock smiles innocently. “May I remind you that, if things took a nasty turn, I have the favour of some of the most influential people in the country?”

His brother rolls his eyes dramatically. “May I remind you their  _ favour  _ is fickle at best? These people have no real interest in you, brother dear, only in your body.”

“Unlike Inspector Lestrade and his frankly ridiculous  _ crush  _ on you?” Sherlock asks, keeping his tone light although his brother’s words sting. He stands up, making his way towards the wine cabinet and pouring himself a glass. “What really baffles me though, is that you’re not sleeping together  _ yet. _ Has the man who was once called the greatest seducer of our times finally been stumped?”

Mycroft huffs. “Trust me, I’ve tried. The good Inspector is just too much of a moral man to bed a whore.”

Sherlock laughs at that. “A  _ retired _ whore. Doesn’t that count for something?” He pours another drink, placing it on the table, next to his brother who’s looking quite sour. “Oh, no need for the long face, brother mine. I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.” He grins once again. “Maybe it’d help if I showed you a couple of tricks.”

The older man rolls his eyes again, turning his attention back to his papers. “Doubtful.” He sighs, taking a small sip from his wine cup. “You know I went through the trouble of becoming a whore to spare you of the same fate, right?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. Conventional morality will tell you prostitution is a bad choice of profession, but it can actually be a very profitable and, on occasion, enjoyable one, particularly considering their circumstances could have never been considered truly unfavorable. “Yes, yes, we’ve been through this a million times.” He drops himself on the chair once more, lounging back. “I really enjoy doing this, Mycroft. As much you did, once upon a time.”

His brother doesn’t answer, gaze lost in the horizon. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asks after a brief pause, staring directly at him once more. “I thought you had a doctor’s appointment?”

Ah, yes. The doctor. “Dr. Stanford has run into a bit of trouble, apparently. A friend of his has taken over his practice for the time being.” He scrunches up his nose, staring at his wine cup intently. “I’m not sure I liked him.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, now he being the one thoroughly amused and Sherlock scoffs, looking away. “Shut up,” he spats, feeling a blush spreading across his cheeks and cursing his silly bodily reactions.

“I don’t think I will,” Mycroft states, smiling like the cat that got the cream.

Sherlock storms out of the room, followed by the sound of his brother’s laughter. God, what was he thinking? Of course Mycroft would be of no help and now he has given him something to use as leverage.

It’s not like it matters, he tells himself darkly, as he makes his way through the halls of the brothel, ignoring the myriad of sounds coming from the closed doors he passes. He’ll probably never see Dr. Watson again, so why should it matter if he thought the doctor was stupidly handsome?

He closes his bedroom’s door after him, locking it and leaning against it for a while, trying to gather his thoughts. Even if he ever saw the doctor again, it’d be of no use. He might not give a damn about conventional morality and what people think of him or his job, but he knows he could never have a regular relationship since he’s not willing to change for  _ anyone. _

It’s a stupid notion, really.

Better forget all about it.

And yet--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, it’s super short and in terms of world building, it could certainly use some serious work, but I like the premise and I think I’ll go back to writing more eventually-- although first I need to finish at least one of my WIPs and I really need to start working on my FTH 2018 work :P  
> So, I’m leaving this marked as finished, although it’s very likely I’ll add more eventually. Maybe it’ll work out as a series of vignettes, instead of a regular fic, but I guess we’ll see. Maybe ;)  
> Thanks for reading!  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> *Edit May 1st: Since I've started working on the next chapter, this story has officially become a WIP. If my boss cooperates, the next update should be ready by next week at most ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… here’s a new chapter.  
> I’ve said a hundred times before I have no self control whatsoever. And I really don’t, so here we are ;)  
> That being said, I need to clarify a few things: this is, overall, a lighthearted fic. Yes, it involves prostitution but nothing dark or dramatic will happen to any of the characters. As it’s been made clear in the first chapter, both Sherlock and Mycroft do what they do out of their free will and they’re actually somewhat happy with their lives, although of course there’s room for improvement ;)  
> That being said, I enjoy angst. So some might come our way eventually.  
> Next, the historical setting is vague, very much so. Think of it as a bit victorian in aesthetics (clothing, buildings, “technology”), but the mind set is a bit more modern (perhaps even more so)  
> I think that’s all for now. If you have any questions, please do ask! And in the meantime, enjoy!

It seems today is one of those days when nothing seems to work out.

Sherlock huffs, dragging his traveling bag across the slippery sidewalk. His clothes cling to his body unpleasantly, the cold air making him shiver and curse softly under his breath. He had been looking forward to his little trip, actually and now…

Well. Victor has evidently earned himself a lifetime ban from the brothel.

He glares at anyone who dares to as much as look in his general direction and soon enough the news of his early return and his dark mood must have spread across the house, because he doesn’t run into anyone on his way to his bedroom. He abandons his bag on the floor and sheds off his drenched clothes quickly, throwing them into the laundry basket. He doesn’t bother redressing, simply grabbing one of his old nightgowns and putting it on before storming his way towards his brother’s rooms, to inform him of what has happened and make sure not Victor, nor any of his friends can ever even come close to the house again.

He had thought his day couldn’t simply get any worse, but he’s about to find out he was thoroughly mistaken.

He throws open Mycroft’s door, startling the older man, although he recovers quickly. He’s not sitting at his desk, as usual, but lounging on the couch in the far side of the room. He’s wearing one of his fancy nightgowns and his eyes keep going to the closed door leading to his bedroom in a guilty manner.

Ah. It seems he has interrupted something.

“Sorry about that,” he says, smirking a little. “I just came to inform you of my canceled _appointment_.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, sitting up right away, concern radiating from him now, but before he can say anything, the door leading to the bedroom has opened and Mycroft’s mysterious companion steps out.

Sherlock’s heart promptly drops to his feet.

He turns to Mycroft, glaring darkly. “Really?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling slightly self conscious of his choice of clothing. He hadn’t been planning on meeting anyone else tonight, so he hadn’t thought it would matter what he wore, but now--

Well. He supposes it doesn’t matter anyway.

“Dr. Watson was just leaving,” Mycroft says, hurrying to pass the doctor his coat, which was hanging behind one of the chairs and really, Sherlock should have noticed it sooner. “Again, thank you for coming,” he adds, practically pushing the man out of the door, but the damage has been done already.

“Don’t mention it,” the doctor says, slightly puzzled by Mycroft’s attempts of getting rid of him so soon, a light frown marring his stupidly handsome features. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks?”

“Yes, yes, you’ll hear back from me,” Mycroft says, now standing at the door. “Please do leave your contact information with Mrs. Hudson.” He closes the door before the other man can even attempt to answer and after a couple of seconds, they hear the doctor’s steps walking away, muttering softly to himself.

“Really?!” Sherlock demands again, angry and betrayed. He knew telling Mycroft about his meeting with Dr. Stamford’s friend had been a bad idea, but he didn’t think-- he never expected--

“It’s not what you think,” Mycroft argues, pulling his nightgown closer to him. Sherlock arches an eyebrow, gesturing at his whole attire and the older man has the decency to look ashamed. “It’s really not what it seems.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock says, still glaring darkly. “You weren’t trying to seduce the man I’ve just confessed to have taken a liking to? What then, pray tell, were you doing?”

“I… no. Well, yes. Not exactly?” Sherlock huffs, turning around with every intention of leaving the room, but Mycroft stops him, placing a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, wait. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Sherlock hesitates. Mycroft would never deliberately hurt him, he knows, but how do you explain this, then? “Explain.”

Mycroft sighs, letting go of him and running a hand through his hair. “I just… I was curious about this man that had gotten your attention. I wanted to see what kind of man he was.”

“By sleeping with him?”

“I wasn’t actually going to sleep with him,” Mycroft murmurs sourly, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s not really my type.” He scrunches his nose a little and Sherlock can’t help the small laugh that escapes him.

“What's the verdict, then?” he prompts, after a few seconds of silence.

Mycroft considers this briefly, going to take a seat by his desk. “He seems like a decent fellow. He behaved very gentlemanly the whole time.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I could have told you that,” he points out, a small smile dancing on his lips. “Glad you approve, although of course it matters not, since I won’t be seeing him again.”

“Ah, yes, about that…”

“What did you do?”

“I… well, we’re missing an in-house doctor and I thought--”

“Mycroft!”

“As I said, he seems--”

“Absolutely not!”

“Sherlock, be reasonable--”

“Reasonable? You’re the one who’s being ridiculous! No, no, no! No way in hell!”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to roll his eyes dramatically. “It’s not up for discussion, brother dear. I’m still in charge of this business and I--”

Sherlock doesn’t hear the rest, this time actually storming out of the room, making sure to bang the door loudly on his way out. His brother knows better than follow him, of course and so he quickly makes his way back to his room, where he locks himself in to think.

How can Mycroft do this to him? More importantly, why would he?

It’s not like Mycroft to play matchmaker. In fact, he distinctly remembers his brother strongly advising against forming any sort of emotional bonds with anyone. Why, then, hire Sherlock’s little _crush_?

He lays down on the bed, staring at the ceiling intently, as if the answers would fall from the sky if he concentrates hard enough. His brother’s behavior is most out of character and that’s slightly perturbing, but there’s a part of him that’s thrilled at the older man’s decision. It’s most unwise, really and potentially dangerous, but he must admit he’s looking forward to seeing Dr. Watson once again.

It’s out of his hands, in any case. As Mycroft has just pointed out, he’s the one in charge of running the house.

He just hopes neither of them will come to regret it.

* * *

 

Mycroft’s intentions might have been good, even if his methods are questionable, but it doesn’t mean Sherlock isn’t entitled to some form of payback.

He smirks as he makes his way through the front entrance of the Yard’s building, smiling charmingly at the constable at the door. He walks in with purpose and while he makes several people turn their head, evidently puzzled by his presence, no one dares to try to stop him. It’s an useful trick he learned a long while ago: if you act as if you have every right to be somewhere, no one will dare to question your presence.

He walks around a bit aimlessly, since he doesn’t know where his target is and unwilling to ask and alert the man of his visit. He smiles winningly at everyone he happens to run into, making them hurry to look away, most of them blushing brightly. Sherlock smiles, feeling quite pleased with himself.

He’s wearing one of his most conservative outfits, a black pair of pants that fit him like a glove, dragging attention to his backside in the most flattering manner and a loose white shirt, that he has left unbuttoned to the third button. It’s not exactly indecent, at least not by the current fashion standards, but it’s revealing anyway.

A few people do a double take after recognizing him and Sherlock sends even more flashing smiles in their direction. At first it baffled him a little how many people seemed to recognize him by sheer reputation, but nowadays it doesn’t surprise him. Prostitution might be considered _immoral_ in certain circles, but it certainly isn’t illegal and while polite society might scrunch their nose in distaste at the existence of people like him, most of the high society members have used his (or his brother’s) services at least once in their lives, so they have no leg to stand on.

He finally finds his quarry after nearly an hour of wandering around and he hurries to approach the other man, grinning madly at Lestrade’s vaguely horrified expression. The woman he’s talking to (a Sergeant, by the looks of it) stares between them confusedly, before a lazy smile spreads across her lips. “So this is what all the sneaking around is about,” she says, looking thoroughly amused. “Good for you, boss.”

“It’s not like that,” Lestrade protests, glaring at Sherlock now. “Just… give me a minute,” he says, taking Sherlock by the arm and pulling him into his office, closing the door after him.

“People will definitely talk now,” Sherlock comments off handedly, picking one of the many trinkets Lestrade keeps on his desk and examining it curiously. “Locking yourself up in your office with a whore. For shame, Lestrade, for shame.” He grins while the other man huffs frustratedly, before dropping himself on his chair.

“Normally, I’d be worried something had happened, but considering your attire and your general demeanor, I’m going to assume you’re just trying to get back at your brother for something.”

Sherlock smiles. “Inspector, you surprise me! It seems you actually have some detective skills!”

The older man rolls his eyes. “Well? What happened?”

Sherlock shrugs non committedly, leaning back on his seat. “What’s the deal with you two, anyway?” he asks, ignoring the other’s question altogether. “Do you get off on playing hard to get?”

Lestrade’s cheeks are red as tomatoes and Sherlock smirks, pleased with himself. “Not that that’s any of your business, but we’re _friends._ I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

“In theory,” Sherlock replies off handedly. “But that’s not what you two are. Or rather, it’s not all you’d want you to be.”

The Inspector sighs, leaning back on his seat, staring longingly into the distance. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not,” Sherlock argues calmly. “All you have to do is ask and my brother will be falling all over you, happy to do anything to please you.” Lestrade’s expression is hard to interpret and Sherlock frowns, puzzled.

“It’s not that,” he murmurs, shaking his head as if to clear it. “But nevermind that. Does your visit serves any other purpose than embarrass me?”

“Are you ashamed of me?” Sherlock asks, eyes wide with fake innocence and Lestrade huffs, standing up and manhandling him onto his feet. “Alright, alright, I’m leaving,” he says, between giggles. “That’s no way to treat a paramour, I’ll have you know!”

“I’m not-- you’re not-- just go, alright?”

Sherlock grins, before leaning forward to steal a kiss. It takes the Inspector completely by surprise and by the time he reacts, Sherlock is already pulling away. “Till later, Inspector,” he says seductively, turning around and heading towards the building’s entrance, making sure to swing his hips a little. He looks over his shoulder to find Lestrade still gazing at him and he blows him a kiss, much to the amusement of the Sergeant who has been waiting for him outside the office all along.

He giggles, delighted with himself.

There. Maybe his brother will think twice before attempting to seduce Sherlock’s _crushes_ in the future.

* * *

 

The house had originally belong to their father and if he could see what his sons had done to it, the man would probably drop dead once again.

Which wouldn’t be much of a loss, truth to be told.

The house was always big, unnecessarily so and Mycroft had bought a few of the surrounding properties a few years ago for a ridiculously low price. The neighborhood had been quite nice, once upon a time and it’s quite centric but the snobby families next door hadn’t been keen on the idea of living next to a brothel, even one as exclusive and luxurious as this one.

Sherlock walks in through the main door, greeting the couple of men guarding the door and sliding into what once upon a time was the receiving room. He supposes it’s still a sort of receiving room, filled with fancy chairs and couches, but there’s also a small scenario for the occasional performer and a dance floor that rarely gets used, but that looks quite pretty. The lights are always low in here, but Sherlock knows his way around well enough, so he doesn’t bump into anything or anyone. There’s a bar in the far end and he heads straight for it, asking for a martini. He offers the bartender a charming but fake smile before taking a seat next to the bar, surveying the room over his glass brim.

The room is still fairly empty, with just a few patrons here and there having a drink, some talking among themselves and laughing, some sitting in quiet contemplation. A few of the customers try to catch his eye hopefully, but Sherlock suspects today will be one of those nights when he retires early. He doesn’t book appointments anymore, prefering to wander around the bar until someone catches his fancy, leaving a long line of disappointed would-be customers whenever he chooses someone.

That’s not quite how whoring works, his brother had told him once, but it works for him: customers are always a little too happy to have been chosen and so they do their damn best to keep his favour.

Not that it ever lasts, of course.

He leans back on the bar, noticing another button has popped open and not caring one bit. He nurses his drink slowly, thinking about the merits of finding someone for the night; he’s not in the mood, not exactly, but he doesn’t think dwelling on last night’s conversation and his brother’s decision to hire a new in-house doctor will do him any favours, so maybe--

“It’s not even 8 o'clock and you’re already sulking,” a soft feminine voice murmurs next to him and he half turns his face to the newcomer. “What’s wrong with you, my darling dear?”

“Irene,” he greets politely, taking a sip from his drink. “It’s a little early for you to be around, isn’t it?” As far as he knows, The Woman doesn’t start making her rounds until midnight, sometimes even later. Irene has always been a creature of the night: happy to sleep during the day and pounce on her unsuspecting _victims_ during the night.

“I’m not taking customers just yet,” she argues calmly, gesturing for the bartender to fix her a martini too and stealing a sip from Sherlock’s, much to the man’s annoyance. “I came to talk to you.”

“I’m flattered,” Sherlock says, eying his drink with distaste and snatching Irene’s new one the moment the bartender places it in front of her. “But uninterested.”

“Hum. I bet I could teach you a thing or two,” she says, smiling wickedly. “Just name a day and place and I’m all yours.”

Sherlock laughs, bumping shoulders with her and she laughs too, letting their shoulders rest against one another. “I’ll keep it mind,” he promises with a wink and Irene smirks, pleased with herself.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, each sipping their drink absentmindedly. “Is everything alright?” she asks finally, once she has finished her drink. “Rumor has it, you and Mycroft got into a bit of a fight.”

Sherlock hums. “Not exactly.”

“It must have been bad for you to pay a visit to his Inspector friend,” Irene says, tone deceptively light and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Does anything ever escape your notice?”

“Rarely,” she replies off handedly. “I do have a lot of contacts in a lot of places.” She winks mischievously and Sherlock laughs once more, resting his head against her shoulder.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, already considering his answer and Irene smirks.

“I’m your friend, am I not?” she asks, tone full of sarcasm and Sherlock scoffs, making her laugh some more. “Well. The closest thing you have to a friend,” she amends with a small shrug. “I care a little, at least. So, spill.”

Sherlock laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible,” he says, smiling and sitting up straight once more. “Mycroft… _contacted_ a man I might have mentioned I had found him interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“You know… handsome. Nice. Quiet but with a spine of steel. Former military.”

“Ah. You’ve always had a thing for that type.”

Sherlock glares playfully and she laughs good naturedly, gesturing for him to continue. “I just… It wasn’t supposed to matter. I wasn’t going to see him again, so… but now Mycroft has decided to hire him as the in-house doctor and I… I…”

“Attachments are bad for business,” Irene sentences, glaring at her empty drink, as if it has personally offended her. Sherlock nods, now remembering Irene’s… _friend_ who had left one day without looking back, not knowing (or not caring) she was taking Irene’s heart with her.

“I know. What I don’t know is, what’s Mycroft’s game,” he confesses softly, looking in the vague direction of the stairs. A patron is just climbing them, arm in arm with one of the new girls and Sherlock tilts his head to the side, thinking.

“You know your brother: he likes playing games,” Irene murmurs, waving a hand vaguely. “And since his Inspector is still resisting, my guess is he’s bored.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling anyway. “Perhaps you’re right. But I don’t think I like this game.”

Irene shrugs, sliding out of her seat in one fluid motion. “Well, good luck with that. And I’ll make sure to visit this doctor as soon as he comes in.” She winks while Sherlock glares. “Stop sulking, you’ll get all wrinkly. See you later!” she says cheerily as she disappears through the crowd and Sherlock sighs, running a hand through his messy curls.

He shouldn’t have told Irene anything.

When will he learn to keep his mouth shut?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Hopefully, the next update won’t take long. I lack a plot other than getting the boys together, but maybe that can work: since this is supposed to be light hearted, maybe I don’t need to throw in a dramatic subplot at some point ;)  
> If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to ask either via comment or on my tumblr. Any suggestions are welcome too, of course.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… here’s a new chapter. I’m afraid it doesn’t really move the plot forward, but I didn’t feel like adding any more scenes since they felt a bit… redundant. It’s a little more on the serious side than the previous chapters, but not terribly so :P  
> Hope you’ll enjoy!

_It’s complicated._

_Well_ , Mycroft thinks morosely, _that’s one way to describe it_.

He sighs, taking a long sip from his wine cup, staring outside the window without really seeing. He’d normally know better than to take Sherlock’s words at face value, but on this particular subject, he’s afraid he has hit a wall and so he’ll welcome any insight that might help him shed some light on the matter.

Of course he’s annoyed at Sherlock’s little stunt, if only because he has no doubt it has costed him at least a couple of weeks worth of Gregory’s visits, but he supposes he had it coming after the little stunt he himself pulled with Dr. Watson. He smirks a little at the thought, sparing a quick glance at the calendar he keeps on the far wall, noticing the doctor’s arrival at the house is just a couple of days away and he should probably be focusing on the logistics of said move.

But not tonight. He has bigger preoccupations, after all.

Sherlock had retold his little excursion to the Yard, sparing him no detail. Mycroft had simply rolled his eyes, all too used to his brother’s dramatics, right until the point when Sherlock had mentioned his little conversation with the Inspector on the subject of their _relationship_ (if their occasional visits to each other can be called that).

 _Complicated_ doesn’t begin to cover it, really.

His _feelings_ for the good man aren’t only _complicated_ but terribly _inconvenient_ , not to mention _frustrating_. It’s been a while since Mycroft had to put any actual effort into seducing someone and yet nothing he tries seems to do a single thing for Gregory. He has tried every trick in the book and then some, short of dropping himself naked in the man’s lap (which he thinks would be rather undignified and yet, if things carry on like this, he can not say he has completely discarded the idea).

The problem, of course, is that things aren’t quite that simple. If it was pure desire, he’d have no trouble shrugging the matter off, focusing his energy on better ( _easier)_ prospects. There are too many men and women all too eager to fall into Mycroft’s bed for him to lose any sleep on a single man deciding he’s not interested in him, but Gregory is… he is…

He huffs indignantly, dropping himself on the luxurious couch he keeps in his office, leaning back on it. He had liked the other man from the moment he put his eyes on him and he should have known better than to entertain silly thoughts about romance and whatnot, but there’s something about the Inspector…

“Ridiculous,” he murmurs to himself darkly, taking another sip from his cup.

And yet--

* * *

 

His life had turned a little (or a lot) different from what he envisioned when he was a teenager, but then, life rarely goes according to plan.

Being the oldest son of a relatively well off merchant, Mycroft had expected to carry on with the family business and continue building a decent fortune for himself. He had assumed he would marry at some point and maybe have a couple of children, although the thought didn’t bring him any particular joy. All in all, he expected to live a very common, completely unremarkable life.

And then his father had died. In truth, in wouldn’t have been such a life changing thing, if his mother had handled things a little better. He had known she was unhappy with her marriage and quite resentful of his father, which wasn’t a terribly unexpected thing, considering the circumstances of their marriage in the first place. The affair she was conducting wasn’t terribly surprising either, but what came next… well. That was a whole different story.

Shortly after father’s death, Mother had decided to move in with her lover, which of course, was a great scandal. Then, not even a year later, said lover had decided he had bored of her and accused her of murdering the late Mr. Holmes. Nothing could ever be proven, of course (mostly due Uncle Rudy’s meddling), but their reputation never quite recovered from it.

Nevertheless, Mycroft could have avoided total disgrace. They were not without money or connections and a few marriage offers came his way as soon as he turned 18. Briefly, he entertained the notion of doing the respectable thing: marry well and live decently, so the family’s reputation might eventually recover.

He found the notion held little appeal for him. Who wants to endure people constantly talking behind one’s back? Hypocrisy had never been his forte and he couldn’t imagine a life of _pretending_ to be something to appease society, of acting a certain way, always careful of not mistepping, would be anywhere near comfortable or enjoyable.

People talked about him and his family all the time.

Well then. He’d give them something to talk about.

It had been fun, terribly so. It wasn’t the sex what excited him, but the sense of power it gave him: people who had constantly scorned him and his family would eventually come crawling to him, begging for a few hours of his time. He built himself a reputation and soon enough he had people knocking on his door at all hours. Mother had died shortly after that and while he worried a little about how his acts might impact Sherlock’s life, he wasn’t overly concerned. His clientele was pretty selected: only the richest, most influential, most _powerful_ people could hope to buy an hour with him and so he had no doubt that, if the moment came, he could use them to get his brother a much better life.

He hadn’t expected Sherlock to decide to follow his footsteps, of course, but, in all truth, he hadn’t been as horrified by the fact as he had pretended to. He understood a bit of Sherlock’s motivations, so similar to his own, and even if he didn’t… well, he had no leg to stand on, did he?

But that’s all in the past now. He had enjoyed the game and the challenge it posed, but he had grown older and weary; he did not wish to continue enduring the dull company of those who hired him and so, shortly before his 35th birthday he had announced his retirement. The news had been met with some disappointment, naturally, but the fuss had died soon enough. In any case, the brothel had many other prostitutes by then and it wasn’t like his clients had any form of emotional attachment to him.

It was for the best, really. Not only he didn’t have the stamina to continue entertaining clients as often as he once did, he found he didn’t have the patience to put up with their foolishness any longer. Besides, not working anymore meant he didn’t have to care as much for his appearance, which allowed him to eat and drink at his heart’s content, indulging in all those foods he couldn’t before and exercise as little as he wanted.

He examines his reflection on the mirror, pinching his belly absentmindedly. He has gained weight, there’s no denying that and his muscles aren’t as toned as they were a few years ago, but he doesn’t think his appearance is off putting. Why, he still gets requests for his services whenever he ventures into the house’s receiving room, people are still willing to pay very good money for a little of his time!

He runs a hand through his thinning hair, pursuing his lips a little. He steps closer to the mirror, examining the few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and he huffs, frustrated with himself. He’s not old, not really and while he knows he was never conventionally attractive, that was never a problem before.

Why then does the good Inspector remains so unattainable?

Perhaps he’s just not his type. Except that that can’t be, because he has seen the way the other man stares whenever he thinks Mycroft isn’t looking. There’s something in the way he looks at him that makes something flutter in Mycroft’s insides: it’s lust, yes, partially, but it’s something else too. Something he doesn’t quite dare to name, at least not yet.

He sighs, dropping himself on the bed, staring at the ceiling mournfully.

 _Complicated,_ he thinks.

Complicated indeed.

* * *

 

What, exactly, does he think he’s doing?

He’s getting stupid and sentimental in his old age, really. Why did he ever think _hiring_ Sherlock’s little crush was a good idea? What was he trying to do? Play matchmaker?

He scoffs at the thought, earning himself a funny stare from Mrs. Hudson, who is standing next to him. He ignores the woman’s pointed look and soon enough she turns her attention back to the scene taking place in front of them.

Mycroft’s attention goes back to said scene too, brow slightly furrowed. He had thought it amusing at first, but now he’s beginning to see just how badly things could go. Neither he nor his brother have any actual experience on the subject of love and having a man Sherlock is so evidently attracted to around the house could be troublesome. At best, Sherlock will get his heart broken for his troubles and at worse…

Well. He obviously miscalculated.

But what can he do now? Firing the doctor is an option, of course, but he’s not sure how he’d be able to justify such move. What other people might think of it shouldn’t matter, really, but--

“Miscalculated, didn’t you?” Mrs. Hudson asks, as Sherlock offers to show the doctor to his new quarters. “Thought it would be amusing to see him fumbling around like a besotted teen?”

Mycroft glares and the infuriating woman smirks, completely unaffected. “I might have made a slight miscalculation,” he agrees finally, making the woman’s smirk widen. “Nothing too serious, though.”

Mrs. Hudson’s smirk disappears at that, a sad expression taking over her face right way. “You know nothing, boy,” she murmurs, “your brother isn’t like you. His heart is too tender to endure such pain.”

Mycroft frowns, not appreciating the implications. “It’ll be fine,” he argues airily, avoiding her eyes, staring in the direction his brother and the doctor disappeared.

“I hope you’re right,” she replies simply, turning around and heading back into the maids’ quarters.

Mycroft bites his lip, something that feels an awful lot like guilt making his stomach twist unpleasantly.

Maybe he made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, it doesn’t really help advance the plot, although it gives a bit of background information, doesn’t it? Hopefully it doesn’t feel like an info dump, but I keep feeling there was something else I wanted to add here…  
> Oh well. I hope you enjoyed it! I’m thinking of having John’s POV in the next chapter, although I’m trying to decide if mixing POVs over the chapter would be a bad thing… :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while since I updated this. I’m not very sure an update is a good idea, since I have no clue where this is going but well… I’ve written it already :P  
> Enjoy!

It’s three o’clock in the morning and yet, the house is still not fully quiet.

From the receiving room (or what passes as it) comes the soft echo of music playing. It’s a soft melody, full of promises for the future and it’d certainly help to lull John to sleep, if if wasn’t for the echo of voices, steps, tuds and  _ moans  _ that come from upstairs.

Having taken residence in a brothel, he ought not to be as surprised by the sounds and yet he is. In normal circumstances, he might have even been a little jealous of what’s going on in the top floors, but right now he just feels annoyed.

God, what he’d give for a few hours of peace and quiet.

It seems there’s no such thing to be found in the house, though. While the nights might be much busier, clients come and go at all times. All the common rooms seem to be perpetually occupied by someone and the only place where John can be alone with his thoughts is his bedroom, except that no, not really, because even there he can hear what’s going on in the top floors.

He sighs, leaning back on his pillows and staring at the ceiling. A year ago he wouldn’t have even considered working at a brothel, but his circumstances have drastically changed, of course. He glares at his right hand, the one that presents a slight tremor that prevents him from doing surgeries and a sudden stab of pain in his thigh reminds him that that’s not the only reason why he can no longer work at the hospital; a leg that can give up at any given second makes it impossible to manage the long hospital’s shifts.

How quickly life changes, he thinks morosely.

He ought not to be so grumpy, he knows. When Mike Stamford had asked to cover him for a few days at his private practice, John had been quickly approaching the end of his rope, having very little money left. His landlord had threatened to kick him out if he didn’t pay him before friday and so he had been more than happy to manage Mike’s practice for a few days. The money wouldn’t last long, he knew, but it’d buy him some time.

And then, his short stay at Mike’s practice had got him an interview with the one and only, Mycroft Holmes. John hadn’t been sure what to make of the “interview” (if it could be called that), especially not after the man had all but kicked him out of the room, but it seems it had gone well, considering he received a call from Mrs. Hudson just a day later, asking him if he could start in a month from then and explaining that if he did agree, he wouldn’t have to worry about the rent, or food ever again.

It was too good of an offer to say no.

And even now, he supposes, it’s still quite a good deal. His room is nice and well furnished and he doesn’t have to worry about keeping it clean or doing his laundry or anything at all. The bed is big and comfortable enough and the whole house has internal heating, which helps a lot with the pain of his thigh. The food is also decent and abundant and Mrs. Hudson makes a tea to die for.

All in all, it’s really not a bad deal. With time, he’s confident he’ll get used to the noise and he’ll sleep as well as he ever did.

But not tonight, it seems. He sighs, finally giving up on trying to get back to sleep and he decides to go to the library in search of something to read. With any luck, the house’s small library will be actually empty and he’ll get to enjoy some peace and quiet for a little bit.

One can only hope.

* * *

 

As luck will have it, the library is in fact empty and John loses himself among the stacks of books for a long while, surprised by the amount of medicine titles. There are also a lot on biology and chemistry, not to mention some about mathematics and even astrophysics. There are odd choices for a brothel, John thinks, although he had already guessed the house’s owner, not to mention his younger brother, have hidden depths, although he doubts many get to witness them. 

John imagines that he caused quite the impression on the younger Holmes and he must have said something to the older one, which prompted Mycroft Holmes to ask him to come in for an interview in the first place. He’s been meaning to thank the young man, but Sherlock Holmes has proved to be as elusive as the tales in the city will tell you, seemingly always missing when you’re looking for him, coming and going as he pleases.

John is more than a little intrigued, if he must be honest with himself, but he knows he ought not to be entertaining silly thoughts: Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be more out of his league if he was the Crown Prince.

“Morning, Dr. Watson,” a feminine voice greets him from the entrance, startling John out of his absent minded reading. “Little early for a visit to the library, don’t you agree?”

John smiles politely at the newcomer. Irene Adler, The Woman, is as beautiful as the stories he’s heard about her described, perhaps even more so. But hers is a dangerous beauty, the kind that seems to warn you to stay away, lest you lose everything you hold dear.

“Ms. Adler,” he greets pleasantly, putting his book away. He has yet to figure out The Woman’s curious interest in him: it’s not sexual, he can tell, but he can’t imagine why she keeps finding reasons to keep him company. “You look particularly beautiful in this fine morning.”

Adler smiles, all sharp teeth and she approaches him with confident steps, her hips swinging with each move. Her long hair is hanging loose for once, framing her face, cascading over her shoulders. She wears an almost seen-through silk gown, in a soft shade of green that seems designed to bring out her best features. She perches herself on the armrest of the sofa John is sitting on, pulling her legs closer to her, the gown slipping just the slightest bit to showcase her lovely calves and yet John remains perfectly unmoved, just staring at her patiently.

“Am I not to your tastes, Dr. Watson?” she asks, tone husky, leaning closer to him, a hand resting on his shoulder feather-like. “In my experience, even the most moral men can’t help to take a peek.” She smiles, her hand lightly running up and down his arm and John shrugs casually.

“It’s nothing personal, Ms. Adler,” he tells her, with a smile of his own. It’s a game for her, of that he’s sure, but he supposes there’s also some… professional pride that he has managed to bruise with his disinterest. “I’m simply… weary.”

Adler hums thoughtfully, her hand still traveling the same path absentmindedly. “Is that so? Have you grown tired of the world pleasures, then? Too many lovers for another one to make any real difference?”

John laughs at that. “Hardly,” he replies flippantly. “But I’m simply not interested in… this.”

“This?” Adler asks, still smiling. “What’s this, exactly? Bought pleasure? Meaningless sex? Women?” there’s a gleam in her eye that tells John she’s after a very specific answer, but, for the life of him, he can’t figure out which.

“You seem oddly invested in my answer, Ms. Adler,” he comments flippantly, deciding to play along and see what awaits for him on the other side. “Is it a personal interest or just professional curiosity?”

Adler shrugs non committedly. “Bit of both,” she answers, the gleam in her eye even more pronounced now. “You’re a most interesting man, Dr. Watson or so I’ve been assured,” she says, finally rescinding her place on the armrest and dropping herself casually on another of the couches, her posture much less studied now. 

“And who exactly told you that?” John asks, suddenly feeling wrong footed. The only people he has really interacted with is Mrs. Hudson and, to a lesser extent, with the Holmes brothers and while the housekeeper does seem a bit prone to gossip, they haven’t really talked about anything other than the housing particulars, so he can’t imagine--

The woman smiles enigmatically, leaning back on her seat. “Now, that’d be telling,” she says. “Would you answer my question?”

John considers this briefly. He shouldn’t, since she refused to answer his, but he finally shrugs, deciding it’s no matter. “You,” he answers finally, smiling winningly. “I’m afraid you’re just not my type.”

“Fair enough,” she replies back flippantly. “But what’s your type?” she presses again and John knows she’s definitely after a particular answer. “Tall dark and mysterious?” She’s grinning mischievously and John frowns, wondering who is she referring to. It’s clear as water she has someone in particular in mind, but why?

“Now that’d be telling,” he says and Adler laughs, throwing her head back. She does have a most lovely neck, John thinks distantly, as well as lovely clavicules, but…

Before either of them can say anything else, a soft  _ oh  _ coming from the library’s entrance makes them both turn in that direction. “Sherlock, darling!” Adler exclaims cheerfully, sitting up straighter and patting her own armrest. “Come here, honey! Sit with us.”

Mr. Holmes looks far from thrilled, throwing a dark glare in the woman’s direction, but he does obey, sitting on the edge of the armrest. For a few seconds, he seems to be holding an entirely silent conversation with the woman, one that consists of pointed glares and narrowed eyes, while Adler’s smile just widens.

Something that feels an awful lot like jealousy makes John shift uncomfortably in his seat, but he quickly tells himself he’s being ridiculous. Whatever the relationship between Holmes and Adler happen to be, it’s none of his business. Besides, what does he have to be jealous of?

“Dr. Watson,” Holmes say, turning to him, a pleasant but perfunctory smile on his lips. “What a nice surprise to see you here. May I ask how are you adapting to the house?”

John thinks back to his sleepless night and he shrugs non committedly. “Well enough,” he replies, not wanting to sound ungrateful. Holmes watches him in silence, as if analyzing his words and a slow lazy smile spreads across his lips.

“You haven’t been sleeping, I see,” he says. “The noises keeping you up?”

John huffs, amused. “If you must know… yes. But I’ll get used to it, soon enough.”

“Maybe you could find someone to keep you company at night,” Adler suggests, with a very pointed look in Holmes’ direction. “That way at least you’d be… entertained.” She winks and John finds himself blushing lightly. 

“Bit unprofessional, don’t you think?” he asks and Adler laughs once more. Holmes doesn’t look quite amused and his eyes continue fixed on John, as if trying to read into his very soul.

“Oh, no one would bat an eyelash, I assure you,” she tells him, eyes gleaming with delight. “Hey!” she exclaims and John notices Holmes has very subtly kicked her leg. The younger man blushes delicately when he notices John’s eyes on him and he immediately stands up, looking a tad spooked.

“Don’t listen to her. Irene has a tendency to… ” Holmes advices, already heading for the door. “Or… you know… if you want… it’s really up to you.” He pursues his lips, evidently displeased about something, although John has no idea what exactly. 

“I don’t think I will,” John says, although he’s not sure why he feels it matters. It truly shouldn’t be something for the younger man to concern himself with, but for some reason he doesn’t want him thinking he’ll seriously consider Adler’s words.

Holmes turns then, to face him once more, a light frown marring his features. For a minute, it’s like the rest of the world has disappeared and it’s just the two of them, staring at each other, trying to communicate  _ something  _ although what exactly, John has no clue whatsoever.

Or maybe it’s all in his head. No, scratch that: in all likelihood, it’s all in his head.

“Have a good day, Dr. Watson,” he says finally, turning sharply on his heel and practically fleeing the room.

Released from the spell he had seemingly fallen into, John turns to look at his other companion. Adler lounges in her chair, grinning like the Cheshire cat, looking thoroughly amused.

John gulps nervously. Why does he feel like he’s missing something?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> The problem with this particular fic, it’s that I don’t have a clear plotline to follow, so the next update might take a bit (or not, inspiration is, after all, a fickle mistress) but well… I hope you enjoyed it ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought! And if you have any suggestions, I’m definitely open to them. I’m thinking of changing the format to make this more a series of vignettes rather than a linear fic but well… who knows what’ll happen? :P


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! See? It didn’t take me quite as long as the previous one :P  
> Enjoy!

There’s an argument going on the top floor.

A very noisy, no doubt heated argument, but no one seems terribly concerned. John stares at the ceiling for a beat, flinching at the sound of a chair hitting the floor.

Or at least he hopes it was a chair.

“Is that normal?” he asks to no one in particular, growing more concerned with each passing minute. He looks at Irene, who is absentmindedly finishing her breakfast, her gaze fixed on a letter she’s reading.

“Normal enough,” she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’ve been at the house for six months, the real wonder is you hadn’t heard one just yet.”

“True enough,” Janine pips up, dropping herself on the seat next to Irene, stealing a piece of the woman’s bread, although she doesn’t seem to notice (or perhaps she simply does not care). “With Sherlock’s increasingly sour mood, it was just a matter of time before he started taking it out on his brother.”

“It doesn’t help his sour mood is actually Mycroft’s fault, for once,” Irene comments off handedly, taking a quick sip from, John suspects, her long gone cold coffee. “Also, our good Inspector hasn’t graced us with his presence in a while, so… yeah, it’s probably going to take a while. They might even need some patching up eventually.”

John frowns, considering the women’s words. It’s true that the Holmes brothers can be quite… peculiar and their dynamic is quite curious. Having being employed at the house for a little over 6 months though, he had imagined he had seen the worst of it.

He clearly hadn’t, by the sounds of it.

“Do not concern yourself overly much, Dr. Watson,” Janine says, eyes alight with mischief for some reason. “No one will end up dead, at the very least.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” he argues, the matching smirks on the women’s faces telling him he’s missing something. “And I really must insist you call me by my name, Janine.” The woman smiles coyly, before turning her attention back to breakfast.

“Are you and Sherlock in first name basis too?” Irene asks suddenly, her gaze fixed on John for the first time in the conversation. John has learned the woman is always after very specific answers, constantly testing him. On what exactly he’s being tested, he has no idea and he suspects he has failed most (if not all) of them.

“Mr. Holmes,” John answers, with more bite than he intended, “spends far too much time avoiding me for that. Did you know he has missed his physical for the last 5 months?”

“Has he?” Irene asks, sharing a knowing look with Janine, making the other woman giggle delightedly. “Poor hopeless thing,” the woman comments, taking another sip of her drink, eyes fixed on John, which makes him suspect she’s no longer talking about Sherlock, or at least not only about him.

Before John can get truly offended though and demand an explanation, the backdoor opens, startling everyone in the kitchen. The backdoor is only used by Mrs. Hudson and the couple of maids that work with her, but the three women left for town to buy supplies for the week just twenty minutes ago, so it can’t be them coming back.

There’s a man standing at the door. He’s a little older than John, and handsome, someone who wouldn’t be quite out of place at the house, although John is certain he’s not one of the employees, since by now he actually knows everyone. He can’t be a client though and probably he isn’t in search of employment, since those who are, are expected to come through the front door too.

John stares at him, honestly curious about the man’s presence. The newcomer blinks at them owlishly, an embarrassed smile on his lips. “Eh, good morning,” he greets a little awkwardly.

“Inspector Lestrade!” Irene exclaims cheerfully. “Why, we were just commenting on your prolonged absence.”

“Oh, well, I…”

“Poor Mycroft has been quite out of sorts,” Janine continues dramatically, prompted by one look from Irene. “Why, he might be murdering his dear brother as we speak!”

John certainly hopes that’s not what’s going on, but now that he thinks about it, those two have been awfully quiet for a while. “I sure hope that’s not the case,” the Inspector comments, looking upwards speculatively. “Also, I don’t--”

“Oh, please,” Irene interrupts with a roll of her eyes, standing up and starting to push the man upstairs. Since the house is relatively quiet this early in the morning (and John suspects many vacated the premises when the first sounds of the Holmes brothers’ arguing started), their voices can still be heard. “Everyone in the house knows,” Irene hisses, prompting some babbled response from her companion.

“Know?” John asks, turning to Janine, who’s staring at the door with a smile on her face.

The woman turns to him then, giggling softly. “Oh, Dr. Watson. You’re so adorably blind to the matters of the heart,” she says, although there’s no malice in her words and that’s why John lets it pass.

He feels like he’s being missing something from day one.

But what?

* * *

 

“Ta-da!” Irene exclaims, pushing the door open in a dramatic fashion. “I bring you a sacrifice, Lord Mycroft! Please do accept it as payment for Sherlock’s crimes!”

“Irene--”

“Ms. Adler--”

“I don’t really think--”

“Ah, Gregory,” Mycroft says, in his best flippant tone. He’s made an art of always keeping a perfectly calm facade, but his face and tone seem intent on betraying him whenever the good Inspector is around. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, yes, I…” the man trails off awkwardly, looking around the room sheepishly. “I’ve been crazy busy so I couldn’t come around and I’m still busy, I must admit, but I was hoping… maybe we could have breakfast?”

“Oh, how cute,” Sherlock says, with a roll of his eyes. “Very well, brother dear. I shall leave you so you can attempt-- and fail-- to seduce our good Inspector once more.”

Mycroft manages to keep his blush under control, but he does glare at his brother, who is sharing a conspiratory smile with Irene. He quickly turns his attention back to his visitor though, worried his brother’s thoughtless comment might make him retreat his offer, only to find Gregory is blushing rather profusely himself.

“Off you go, brother dear,” Mycroft says, his eyes never leaving Gregory’s and he can hear Irene and Sherlock’s giggles as they step out of the room.

“Oh, by the way,” Irene says, opening the door once more, much to Mycroft’s frustration. “Sherlock has been missing his physicals, according to Dr. Watson,” she smirks, winking. “Just thought you’d like to know!” she exclaims, closing the door.

“Traitor!” Sherlock yells from somewhere behind the door, followed by more laughter and the sound of their feet as they rush down the stairs, empty threats being yelled around.

“God, they’re like children,” Mycroft murmurs sourly, pursing his lips as he approaches the door, opening it once more. “Go see Dr. Watson, Sherlock!” His brother shouts something back, but it gets lost and Mycroft shrugs, figuring that can be a problem for later.

Right now, he has bigger, better concerns. “Now, about breakfast,” he says, turning to his companion, smiling pleasantly, receiving a smile back for his troubles.

Yes, he can definitely deal with his little brother later.

* * *

 

Sherlock scowls at nothing in particular, waiting outside Dr. Watson’s office for the man to show up. He’d rather have continued skipping his physical evaluations, but now that the matter has been brought to Mycroft’s attention, his brother is unlikely to let the matter go unaddressed, at least not once his current…  _ distraction  _ has left.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Watson says, clearly surprised to find him there. “I thought… well, I probably should have guessed this would happen, considering Irene’s earlier antics--” he mumbles, opening the door and holding it open for Sherlock to go in. He feels a stab of jealousy at the thought of Irene and the doctor being on first name basis, but he quickly dismisses the thought.

What right he has to be jealous, anyway?

“I’m in top physical form,” he informs the doctor in a flippant manner, waving a hand dismissively. “Coming to see you seemed… a waste of both of our times,” he explains, narrowing his eyes at the doctor’s flinch. Did he say something wrong?

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you, Mr. Holmes,” Watson says, gesturing for him to disrobe. “As the house’s physician, I’ve been hired to see to the entire staff’s health, which includes regular check ups.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, dropping his clothes next the the examining table without any real concern for them. He catches sight of the doctor eying him in a manner that’s not strictly all business and he can’t help the smirk that comes unbidden to his lips.

He quickly shakes himself off his silly daydreams, though. It’s not that he has any doubts of the doctor’s attraction for him, but it’s a dangerous, unwise path to travel. Sherlock’s current…  _ profession  _ makes actual dating a near impossibility, partners usually ending feeling cheated or betrayed in some manner, never mind Sherlock is perfectly capable of distinguishing between clients and actual lovers.

Dr. Watson seems to have shaken himself off his own little dreams and he proceeds with his examination, in a professional, detached manner. He asks Sherlock questions, takes notes and makes small talk, something that would usually annoy Sherlock but there’s something terribly… endearing about Dr. Watson, something he noticed on their very first meeting and which prompted him to decide to stay as far away from him as possible just one day after the man moved in.

He knows his silly infatuation is not wise and that he ought to stay away. But like a moth, blinded by the light of the flame, approaches it with no regard for its safety, Sherlock quickly finds himself dropping his guard in the doctor's presence, soon actually talking to him with ease, sharing his particular brand of humor and getting a positive reaction on top of it all.

It’s so different from what he’s used to. People have usually little interest in what he has to say, his thoughts often getting dismissed or mocked. It’s part of the reason he became a prostitute, he’d admit to himself: people had talked down to him his whole life, often ignoring and mistreating him. Now though… well, now it seems there’s nothing people aren’t willing to do for a few minutes of his time (even if they still seem disinclined to actually listen).

But John-- no, Dr. Watson, he needs to keep some distance between them-- he’s so… he honestly cares. And he apparently does enjoy spending time with Sherlock, not for the sake of what he can do for him, but for his simple company, no strings attached.

He eventually realizes the morning has come and go and their talk has yet to stop. A regular physical exam wouldn’t have lasted more than thirty minutes tops, but it seems it has taken them five whole hours.

“Well, it seems I have managed to waste quite a lot of your time, Dr. Watson,” he says, standing up rather abruptly, feeling wrong footed. “I apologise,” he murmurs, avoiding the other man’s eyes.

“I’d hardly call it a waste,” the other man replies calmly, a soft smile on his lips. “I rather enjoyed our little talk Mr. Holmes. Perhaps-- perhaps you’d care for a repeat, over dinner this time?”

Sherlock’s treacherous heart skips a beat, his mind crying for him to say no, turn around and run as fast as he can. The brain however, has little power over the heart and he finds himself nodding, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. “Yes, perhaps… perhaps it could be arranged.”

It’s not a promise, not quite, but it’s  _ something _ .

A very dangerous something, no doubt.

* * *

 

Greg has had a very busy week.

So busy, that the only thing he thought he had wanted was to go home and collapse on the bed, then go to sleep for the next month or so. Not that he could, of course, his job being as demanding as it is, but he had thought it’d be nice.

And then, when he had finally made it home, he had realized that what he actually wanted, nevermind how deadly tired he was, was to go see Mycroft. His job had prevented him from visiting for a little over a month and now, without the distraction of the tiring case he has been working on, he had come to realize he missed him.

A part of him, the rational side of him, had immediately chided him for such foolish urge, trying to convince him of the wisdom of staying home and sleeping instead. That would have been wiser, Greg is well aware and he’s told himself more than once that his little visits to Mycroft’s are only going to end in heartbreak, but the heart wants what it wants, logic and wisdom be damned.

So here he is now, sharing breakfast with the man that haunts his days (when he’s not distracted by his actual work, of course); who he can’t seem to stay away from, even if he knows that this (whatever this is) can not possibly end well for him.

It’s hard to think about that, though, especially when Mycroft is sitting in front of him, being his usual enthralling self; there’s no wonder why he was so popular once upon a time (and he could probably still be, if he cared to be). He’s smart and witty, with a dry sense of humor and their meetings always leave Greg longing for more. 

“Well, you know how things are usually with Sherlock,” Mycroft says, in response to his question about the argument he seemingly interrupted. “He’s difficult. And he’s been in a slightly bad mood lately. Brooding, except he won’t call it that, of course.”

Greg frowns, “but why?” he asks, taking a sip from his coffee. “Has something happened? Did someone upset him?”

Sherlock is a constant subject with Mycroft, although Greg doesn’t begrudge him for it. He knows Mycroft cares for his little brother a great deal, which makes him a constant source of both concern and frustration.

Mycroft sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That might have been my fault, actually.” At Greg’s disbelieving expression (he does know Sherlock blames Mycroft for every inconvenience he ever faces, but that’s never quite true), he chuckles good naturedly. “I’m afraid that’s not Sherlock’s dramatics speaking.” He smiles ruefully and Greg’s heart skips a beat, which he hurries to dismiss.

“What happened?” Greg insists and Mycroft sighs, leaning back on his seat. As he speaks, telling Greg of his ill-advised hiring of Sherlock’s little crush (which now seems out of control), Greg can’t help finding the story both amusing and endearing.

“So you were trying to set him up?” he asks when Mycroft finishes his tale, his lips curving upwards on their own accord. Who would have thought Mycroft is also a romantic, somewhere deep inside?

He ought to stop that line of thought right then and there, Greg thinks distantly, but makes no actual effort to. For the next few days in fact, he’ll find himself thinking about it, almost obsessively, trying to figure out what it can mean.

“In all truth, that wasn’t really my intention. At least I don’t think so,” Mycroft says sourly, toying with his vegetables, spreading them across the plate. “I just… I don’t… I had never seen him like that,” he confesses softly, glaring at his plate as if it was the source of his frustration.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Greg says calmly, in what he hopes is a comforting manner. “You’ve always cared a great deal and you just want him to be happy, don’t you?” he finishes somewhat lamely. He does think that Mycroft’s idea of hiring Sherlock’s crush was as far from well-thought as they come, but he doesn’t think saying as much would be particularly wise.

“I suppose you’re right, although I’m not convinced it was my best idea ever,” Mycroft concedes, sighing. “It’s not like I would know how love looks like, even if it hit me in the face.” His tone is full of self depreciation and it makes something in Greg ache fiercely. He also wants to believe it’s not true, although what he know of Mycroft’s heart and mind ineer workings?

Without thinking, he reaches out, covering Mycroft’s hand with his, effectively startling him.

What is he doing? This isn’t… he’s not… he long ago decided…

He lets go of his companion’s hand right away, murmuring a half assed apology, staring at his food. He does not dare to look up at Mycroft; he does not want to see the expression on his face.

After a beat, the sound of eating from the other side of the table resumes, although the silence between them is tense, completely unlike any other of their interactions.

He knows he has made a mistake.

And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> There’s progress in here, isn’t there? Of course I skipped a few months forward, but that’s probably going to happen a lot from now on, since I think that might help it flow better ;) I actually have a half baked plan of how this is going to go from now on, so hopefully updates won’t take terribly long.  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so terribly sorry for the very late update! I get the feeling I had a plan for this, but I think I’ve forgotten it. Still, the idea for this scene came to me and I figured I might as well post it :P  
> Enjoy?

One of the few perks of being an Inspector, Greg thinks, is that he does not get called in the middle of the night for a case anymore, no matter how terrible and gruesome and public it might happen to be.

He takes another long sip of his recently purchased cup of coffee, standing outside the house. He should turn back now, he knows. It’s none of his business, not really; come tomorrow morning the case will be assigned to another DI if he just stays away. He’s not on official call and the Sergeant who’s been called in probably can handle it but--

Inside his coat’s pocket, the short note he received earlier, delivered by one of the house’s messager boys, seems to be burning. He searches for the piece of paper and takes it out, re reading it.  _ None of his business,  _ he repeats to himself.

**Please do come. MH**

With a sigh, Greg places the note back into his pocket and heads for the front door.

Nothing for it now.

* * *

 

The house has been thrown into utter chaos, naturally. Between clients all too eager to leave, least their reputations might get tarnished and people just generally panicking by the fact that there’s been a  _ murder _ \-- well, the sight is not surprising, not at all.

Greg nods at the couple of Constables stationed at the doors. While both seem surprised at seeing him there, neither tries to stop him and so Greg walks into what he knows is the receiving room even if he’s never been there. Another pair of Constables are here, one trying to explain to the increasingly desperate clients why they can’t leave, the other talking to a group of people, taking their statements.

In a corner, on one the biggest puffiest fanciest chair Greg has ever seen, Mycroft Holmes sits luxuriously, looking for all intents and purposes, thoroughly unmoved. A king overseeing his kingdom, Greg thinks, unflappable, the only calm point in a room filled with chaos.

He sees him enter naturally and he stands up, approaching Greg with calm confident steps. He’s wearing a rather elaborate nightgown in deep blue, thrown over in a haste judging by the lack of other clothing. The cloth is dark enough so nothing really shows, but it certainly accentuates the broad shoulders, the firm chest and the trim waist.

_ Now’s not the time,  _ a voice inside Greg whispers.  _ He was with someone else,  _ another voice supplies and Greg feels an irrational stab of jealousy, before he sharply reminds himself he has no claim on the other man (never has, never could, isn’t that why he’s told himself over and over again to stay away?). “You know I’m off duty,” he says, proud of how steady his tone is, how unaffected he probably looks, even with Mycroft standing so close, wearing so little.

“I know,” Mycroft concedes.  _ And yet you’re here,  _ his eyes seem to say, but he’s too polite to say it out loud, too conscious of Greg’s pride to rub it off. “I thank you for coming,” he adds, vowing his head just the slightest bit, the image terribly tempting for some reason.

_ There’s been a murder,  _ his sense of duty reminds him and Greg takes a deep breath, willing himself to recover his cool. “Perhaps you can show me to the crime scene?”

Mycroft nods. “Just this way,” he says, guiding Greg towards the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Greg isn’t familiar with this side of the house either and as much as he’d hate to admit it, he feels slightly guiddy following the other man upstairs, even if he keeps reminding himself  _ it’s not like that. _

_ Because you’ve never allowed it to be,  _ the voice in his head argues once more and Greg closes his eyes.  _ There’s been a murder,  _ he tells himself once more even if he knows it’s of little use.

Upstairs, he can still hear the sounds coming from the receiving room, but they’re somewhat muffled. He becomes aware of more voices, arguing viciously, angry and annoyed and Greg recognizes them all right away.

He exchanges a look with Mycroft and the other man shrugs casually. The case would have been his come morning, since it’s his Sergeant the one who responded to the original call, so he supposes he can stop feeling like he’s been coaxed into helping.

“This is a crime scene!” Sally exclaims, turning around sharply at the sound of the door opening, an angry admonishment on her lips ready no doubt. “Oh. What are you doing here?”

“Come to help, naturally,” Greg says, with a small, resigned smile. “So, what we’ve got?” he asks, looking around the room.

“Evidence points the man was axfiated--”

“Hardly,” Sherlock interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Poisoned, I’d say.”

“You’re not--”

“Well, clearly--”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

John climbs the stairs slowly, despite the fact he’s actually deadly curious about what’s going on upstairs. But it’s a matter of principle, really: when the dead man had been first discovered, he had offered his help, first to make sure said man was actually dead, then to ascertain the cause of death.

He had been rebuked on both occasions. Mycroft had very firmly informed him the matter was _ better left to the authorities and why don’t you help Mrs. Hudson make tea for everyone? Quite the scare they’ve gotten. _

John huffs. He can hear voices coming from the hall, angry and positively annoyed voices but he can’t hear what they’re saying and John frowns, wondering what’s going on. 

He finds Mycroft waiting just at the end of the stairs, leaning against the wall, looking entirely too calm for someone who has just discovered a dead body in his house. This could be very bad for business, or at least that’s what John thinks, but the man looks thoroughly uninterested.

“I’m sorry, were you busy?” Mycroft asks sarcastically and John rolls his eyes.

“In the future, I shall endeavour to respond to your summons far more quickly,” he replies icily. “But tonight I was rather busy making tea, as I was instructed to,” he adds for good measure, earning himself another roll of eyes.

“Amusing as this…  _ conversation  _ is, I’m afraid there are more pressing matters at hand,” the other man says finally, turning around, expecting John to simply follow. “I’m afraid my brother is being rather… difficult.”

John frowns, considering. “What’s your brother doing up here? Why isn’t he with everyone else?”

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “He found the body and decided investigating the murder was a better use of his time. His… companion ran away screaming, of course, but he stayed.” He looks at John over his shoulder and so the doctor forces himself to keep his face perfectly blank, not betraying the sudden stab of jealousy he feels at the words. Mycroft smiles knowingly and John glares, but doesn’t comment. “Naturally, he’s made a bother of himself and I’m afraid another murder will be committed tonight, unless someone can get my brother to behave.”

John stops abruptly. “You called me to…  _ babysit? _ ”

Mycroft smirks. “Sherlock is terribly fond of you, Dr. Watson. He’s not listening to anyone, but I thought he might listen to you. It’s my understanding you’ve grown…  _ close. _ ”

John doesn’t care for Mycroft’s tone, not one bit and he wonders what have people been gossiping about. He’s… close to Sherlock, yes, he might dare to think of them as friends on the good days, but the other man’s tone seems to suggest something else entirely.

He huffs, pushing past him companion, ignoring Mycroft’s soft chuckle.  _ Now’s not the time,  _ he tells himself, although he’s not sure he truly wants to discuss the subject with anyone, let alone with Sherlock’s older brother.

They finally arrive to the crime scene or so John assumes, because that’s where he finds Sherlock and the Inspector that occasionally comes to visit. There’s another police officer, a young woman who’s looking at Sherlock as if she wants to murder him and John can’t say he doesn’t understand the feeling: Sherlock can be a little…  _ too much  _ from time to time.

“--you’re not listening! He was clearly poisoned--”

“There are no signs--”

“There are! You’re just too blind--”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts, careful to keep his tone calm and even. The younger man turns to him immediately, deaf and blind to the other people surrounding them now. “I got word you’re being difficult.”

Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just pointing out how thoroughly incompetent our police force is,” he sentences, earning himself annoyed protests from the Inspector and the woman with him. “They’ll never solve this without my help.”

“I’m sure,” John says, stepping closer, ignoring the new strain of protests, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “But there’s a protocol for this, Sherlock. Why don’t you let them do their work and then you can calmly share your theory with all of us?”

“But John--”

John just stares at him patiently, the slightest smile on his lips. “Come on,” he says, starting to lead the young man away. “Tell me what you’ve figured already.”

Sherlock starts talking right away, pleased to be sharing his theories and observations without being questioned and mocked. John has noticed the man is terribly brilliant, but has no filter and little social skills, despite his well renowned  _ other  _ skills. But he does love sharing his deductions with others and he’s usually right so John does think he’ll be terribly useful when it comes to solving this particular case,  _ if  _ he communicates properly.

From over his shoulder, John catches the Inspector mouthed  _ thank you  _ and John smiles vaguely, turning his attention back to Sherlock. He’s wasted here, he sometimes thinks, but he also wonders if that’s his jealousy talking. Sherlock is as attractive as he’s brilliant and sometimes John wishes--

But that’s not here not there, naturally.

Not now or maybe never at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> The problem, as I’ve said before, is that I have no clear storyline to follow, so I’m a little lost where this is going. I want the boys to get together yes, but other than that? I have no clue whatsoever what else will be happening.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? A new chapter, so soon? Why, indeed!  
> What can I say, when I’m inspired I can’t help myself ;)  
> Enjoy!

“I must say, you don’t seem terribly concerned.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, shrugging casually. “I do not know why you believe I would be, Inspector,” he answers calmly, leaning back on his seat. While he does appreciate Gregory’s more frequent visits ever since the “incident”, he’s also greatly annoyed by his insistence on discussing the case. As if he didn’t have better things to occupy himself with.

“It can’t possibly be good for business,” Gregory insists, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I’d think you’d be as interested as the police to close this case as soon as possible.”

Mycroft scoffs. “You understand very little of how brothels work, Inspector. As long as the deaths aren’t the result of some terrible infection, there’s no reason for this _incident_ to affect business.”

“The house could be shut down.”

Mycroft has to laugh at that. “Oh, I would love to see anyone try. You forget, I know people in high places.”

Gregory rolls his eyes, evidently growing annoyed. That’s not good for Mycroft’s plans for the good Inspector, not at all, but he’s beginning to suspect those plans will never materialize, no matter what he tries. “This is serious, Mycroft. I--”

“I understand it’s your job,” Mycroft interrupts dismissively. “But I’ve done everything I can to help you. If you insist on discussing the case, may I suggest you take your concerns to my brother? He’s been entertaining himself with coming up with little theories, some sillier than others.”

His interlocutor’s expression is hard to interpret and Mycroft wonders if he’s made a mistake. He’s annoyed, truth to be told, because he really doesn’t see the relevance of the issue, nor how else he can possibly help but it wasn’t his intention to anger the Inspector.

He might also be somewhat sexually frustrated, but that’s not here nor there.

“Maybe I will,” Gregory declares, standing up. “See if he’s more helpful.”

Anger boils in his veins, but Mycroft forces himself to keep his expression perfectly blank. “You should find him in his room. Now, if you excuse me, I’m expecting company.” He isn’t, his elaborate nightgown and the pains he went to look like he does had no other recipient than his current company, but he is angry and he figures that that might actually get a reaction from his companion.

Gregory pursues his lips. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good evening.” And with that he’s out of the door, leaving Mycroft with nothing but his dark thoughts for company.

Well, fuck.

* * *

 

Sherlock paces around the room, his eyes darting to the newly installed board on the wall every now and then. He doesn’t have much to go on, truth to be told and the police aren’t being much help, telling him preciously little: Sergeant Donovan still seems thoroughly annoyed by the fact that he was proven right by the autopsy.

“You know it’d be much easier if you were actually polite, right?” John asks from his place on the bed. He’s been entertaining himself reading a book Sherlock forgot on his night table so long ago he can’t even remember the title anymore and of course he can’t be bothered to read it now.

“They have bigger concerns than me being polite,” Sherlock argues, turning away. There’s something terribly… _thrilling_ about seeing John sprawled over his bed, even if he’s perfectly dressed and there’s no lust in his gaze, just fond amusement. “Or so you’d think.”

John chuckles good naturedly. “You could give it a try. After all, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” Sherlock makes a face: how he hates metaphors. “Or you could ask your brother’s Inspector. He’s likely to talk to you. Or, you know, talk to Mycroft so he’ll tell you what you want to know after you’ve annoyed him enough.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “You might be onto something,” he agrees. “Although I feel obliged to point out the Inspector isn’t my brother’s _anything_ , much to Mycroft’s eternal chargain.”

“Really? Because rumor has it--”

“You can not believe everything you hear,” Sherlock interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Or have I somehow managed not to notice you fucking me in the middle of the day?”

John blushes furiously. Ah, so he has heard the rumor. “Well, when you put it like that--”

“Irene and Janine are terrible gossips,” Sherlock says with a smile. “Both are an endless source of actual information, but you need to learn to identify when they’re downright lying for the sake of their own amusement.”

John hums, trying and failing to appear completely relaxed. He has tensed after Sherlock’s little comment and he wonders if he has made a mistake: maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that particular piece of gossip. John doesn’t look completely against the idea, of course, but he doesn’t look comfortable with it either and Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of it.

Before he can overthink it though, there’s a knock on the door and he frowns, going to answer it. It’s rare for someone to come looking for him; he has a very strict policy against it actually, but some people…

“Ah, speak of the devil,” he says, opening the door wide to allow the good Inspector in. “We were just talking about you, Lestrade. Or rather of how unhelpful your team is being.”

“And here I thought I might be interrupting something,” the older man teases and Sherlock throws him a glare. “Mycroft said you have some theories?”

Sherlock smirks. “Of course. He also has _opinions_ on them. Perhaps we should go to his office--”

“He’s expecting company,” Lestrade interrupts, the jealousy evident on his tone. “I’d rather stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”

It’s curious, Sherlock can’t help thinking, how the Inspector keeps denying himself what he clearly wants, even when it’s more than evident Mycroft wants it too. “As you wish,” he says, throwing a quick look upstairs. He very much doubts his brother is actually expecting someone, but it wouldn’t be nice of him to call him out on his lie, would it?

Not that Sherlock cares much about being nice, of course. But since there are more interesting matters at hand, he supposes he can make an exception.

Just this once of course.

* * *

 

“Oh, someone’s brooding.”

Mycroft doesn’t dignify such silly statement with an answer, instead continues glaring at the wall. It’s been two hours since the good Inspector left and he hasn’t been able to shake off the feeling of _wrongness_ just yet. He hates arguing with the man, he really does, but--

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this particular dance. After all, the first time they meet it had been because one of Mycroft’s clients had been murdered and he had been just as uninterested in the case as he’s now, so he doesn’t understand why it seems to bother Gregory so much.

Of course, last time the murder hadn’t happened at the house, but that changes nothing, does it?

“Really Mycroft,” Sherlock says, fully walking into the room and dropping himself on the chair in front of the desk. “Trying to make him jealous? That’s a little desperate, don’t you think?”

Very. Not Mycroft’s best strategy, truth to be told. “I really don’t understand,” Sherlock continues, completely unbothered by his lack of answer. “I mean-- I don’t understand why he continues resisting, but what I understand even less is why you keep on pursuing him. Professional pride?”

That had been the reason, once upon a time. He had liked Gregory Lestrade from the moment he laid eyes on him but the man remained unreachable and Mycroft had been amused by the challenge. But as he kept pursuing the other man, lust had turned into fondness and fondness had turned into…

Well, what’s the use in denying it? He’s in love, as much as he’d hate to admit it out loud.

“I thought caring wasn’t an advantage,” Sherlock insists once more and Mycroft pursues his lips. He had told Gregory the same, all those years ago, when he had asked if he didn’t care one bit about Lord Elberton’s dead. Mycroft hadn’t; the man had fancied himself a favorite of his and Mycroft had been happy letting him believe whatever he wanted but that unfortunate belief had been the cause of his death by a “rival”. Mycroft had found the whole ordeal totally ridiculous and had said as much: he had no favorites; anyone could have him, as long as they could afford him.

After all, every prostitute knows better than to offer their hearts for taking too.

And yet, look at him. Retired and still desperately trying to get a particular man’s attention. “Are you going to continue with this investigating business?” he asks finally, turning to look at his brother. Sherlock is frowning, just the slightest bit, something that seems like actual concern in his gaze.

“Yes,” Sherlock says finally. “John and I are heading for the Yard tomorrow first thing in the morning.”

“John, huh?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Worry about your own love life, why don’t you? It certainly needs more work than mine.”

Mycroft huffs. “Are you considering retirement, brother dear? Looking for new work prospects?”

“My choices are my own,” Sherlock snaps and he actually sounds angry. He has tried a couple of relationships before, but it has never worked out. Mycroft hadn’t been surprised, of course. “I’ll do with my life-- and my body-- as I please. Anyone who can’t understand that… well, I’m better off without them.”

Mycroft chuckles. “Love changes people.”

“Ugh. Really? You, speaking of love? How the mighty have fallen.”

Yes, indeed.

* * *

 

“Rumor has it you’re working with the police now,” Irene says, sliding into his room without being invited, of course. “Keeps you busy all day.”

“The murderer was… quite clever. I find their methods interesting,” Sherlock says with a shrug, not bothering to move from his spot on the bed. “I just want to figure out how they did it.”

Irene hums, dropping herself next to him on the spacious bed. “Is that all? Aren’t you looking for a change of profession?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Not you too,” he murmurs sulkily, turning on his side so he’s facing his interlocutor. “John and I are just friends.”

“Ah, but is that all you want?” Irene argues, smiling playfully. “It’s fine, you know? Just because you enjoy the work doesn’t mean you can’t quit if you find something else you like better. Or someone, as the case might be.”

Again, Sherlock scoffs. “You of all people--”

“Sherlock,” she interrupts sharply and he snaps his mouth close, knowing that’s one hell of a sore subject. “It’s not the same and you know it. Besides, we’re not discussing me.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I-- I don’t know. I want to solve this case. What happens afterwards-- I don’t know. Besides, John and I are just friends, truly. He hasn’t… there’s nothing that suggests he wants anything else.”

“That’s sure not the impression I get from where I’m standing,” Irene says. “But sure. Whatever gets you to sleep at night.”

Sherlock considers this for a beat. He and John have grown close-- closer than he’s ever been to anyone, actually; he might even consider him an actual friend. And he knows he wants more, yes, but at the same time _he doesn’t._ He does not wish to lose the friendship they have, of course and he also doesn’t want to get… _disappointed_ again. None of his previous relationships have worked out and they ended quite bitterly actually, so…

“Are you working tonight?” he asks and Irene shrugs.

“In a bit, probably. Will you stay here?”

Sherlock bites his lip. He’s not in the mood to take any clients tonight, but-- “No, I don’t think so. I’m kinda stuck on the case, so I might as well…” he waves a hand vaguely. “Distract myself with something else.”

Irene throws him a knowing look, but doesn’t comment.

It’s probably for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I think I might be updating a bit more steadily, because it’s my intention to finish this soon, but I guess we’ll see ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s another chapter! I feel like I’m just soldiering on with no real plan… but I hope it doesn’t read that way :P  
> Enjoy?

“Well, this might be a bigger problem than we originally anticipated,” Mycroft says, staring at the dead body as if it was personally inconveniencing him. In a way, Greg supposes it is.

“Oh, it’s Christmas! Two bodies, same crime scene, different methods!” Sherlock exclaims cheerfully, walking around the room, searching for clues as eagerly as a child looks for his gifts on Christmas’ morning. Greg pinches the bridge of his nose, bracing himself for yet another argument between the young man and his DS. 

“Sherlock,” John warns, but his smile is fond and the other man turns to him with a quizzical expression on his face. “Bit not good,” he says and Sherlock pouts, but doesn’t protest.

More than a bit not good, Greg thinks and he turns to Sally, expecting a sour glare thrown in his direction at the very least, but the DS is nowhere to be found. He arches an eyebrow questioningly and Mycroft smirks.

“Sergeant Donovan seems to have got a bit distracted,” he comments with a wave of his hand. “All for the best, I should think, considering she’s not exactly a fan of Sherlock’s theories.”

“They’re not theories if proven right,” Sherlock says distractedly, kneeling down on the floor. “Seems like our murderer is sending us a message, but it’s a little lost in translation.”

Greg does his level best not to roll his eyes. “I’d hardly think so. It’s pretty clear they’ve taken a personal interest in you.” Sherlock looks up and Greg pursues his lips unhappily. “You could be in great danger, Sherlock. Maybe it’s best if you left for a few days.”

“Leave?!” Sherlock exclaims, scandalized. “And where would I go? No, Inspector, that’s definitely not happening. This is my home and I shall stay here.” He stands up, brushing the dust off his nightgown. “Besides, it’s not like I’m scared.”

Greg throws a desperate look in Mycroft’s direction and while the man looks troubled, he simply shrugs. “Sherlock, you must admit--”

“I shall change bedrooms, if that pleases you,” the younger man says dismissively. “But I’m staying put. Besides, I do want to figure out this mystery and what better place to be than the crime scene?”

They shouldn’t have allowed him back into his bedroom the first time around, Greg thinks, but he should have known better than to leave those poor Constables to deal with Sherlock on their own. “Sherlock, the danger--”

“I’m sure Dr. Watson can keep an eye on him,” Mycroft interrupts, making Greg turn to face him. “You could move into the doctor’s quarters for the time being, brother dear.”

Sherlock throws a withering look in his direction and Greg pinches the bridge of his nose once more as Mycroft smirks smugly. John chooses that moment to drag Sherlock’s attention away by pointing at something and Greg turns his attention to Mycroft.

“Really? Matchmaking, at this time?”

Mycroft shrugs. “I’ve heard danger tends to push people together better than anything else.”

Greg shakes his head. Why does he bother? “Whatever,” he says. “I’m going to go looking for Donovan, since we ought to be working. Just-- keep your brother from doing anything too foolish, alright?”

Mycroft nods, watching Sherlock and John as they examine something on the ground. From this angle Greg can’t see what it is, but he doesn’t bother trying to tell them not to contaminate the crime scene: it’s not like they’ll listen to him.

With that thought in mind, he leaves in search of his DS.

Where has she gone to anyway?

* * *

 

John thinks he did a decent job of not thinking about Mycroft’s suggestion regarding Sherlock’s… relocation, for as long as there’s a murderer in their wake. 

It was sheer luck that he noticed something wasn’t quite right with the body’s position and managed to drag Sherlock’s attention away from the subject when it was first brought up but of course that now that the Inspector and his Sergeant have left, leaving the door to Sherlock’s room practically shut down, there’s just no avoiding the inevitable anymore.

It’s not like he minds sharing, really. He’s lived with other people in very tight quarters often enough and while he enjoys the privacy of his own room, he could forgone his own comfort for the sake of someone’s safety but--

This is Sherlock we’re talking about.

His little…  _ crush  _ got out of control ages ago, John is willing to admit that much to himself, but sharing a room with the man will probably do no favours to what’s left of John’s sanity. Besides, he doesn’t imagine such arrangement would be terribly conductive for business and if Sherlock plans to continue working--

Well. He’s just not sure how that’d work out.

They stand outside John’s room for what feels like a lifetime, neither making the first move. The house is silent for once, although considering this is the second time the police has been called to investigate a murder, John supposes it’s not completely unexpected: most clients fleed the place hours ago, leaving for the safety of their own homes and everyone else is probably a bed already, perhaps a bit annoyed at the loss of business.

“Well, I suppose we should…” Sherlock starts, gesturing at the door vaguely. “Go to sleep?”

“Yes,” John says, but doesn’t move and the younger man sighs, running his fingers through his hair.

“I won’t be working for as long as it takes us to figure out this little mystery, if that’s what’s bothering you,” Sherlock says, chewing on his lip gently. “I do know some basic social cues.” He grins, although there’s no real humor in his eyes, but John’s lips curve upwards just the same. “I could always bunk with Irene,” he adds after a beat, since John fails to say anything at all.  “She’s-- well, she can be a real menace when she wants to. If something happened--”

“No,” John interrupts, because  _ he is worried about Sherlock.  _ Whoever the murderer is, it seems they have some kind of interest in Sherlock and leaving him on his own can’t be terribly wise. And while he knows for a fact that Irene can defend herself, he wouldn’t want to risk it. “It’s fine, I just--” he shakes his head before opening the door with a decisive move. “After you.”

Sherlock stares at him for a beat before finally walking into the room. It occurs John that the other man has never actually been here: while they have occasionally ended up at Sherlock’s room, usually too engaged in their conversation to notice where they’re going, they’ve never ended up at John’s.

John wonders if that’s a coincidence and then he thinks it isn’t.

Sherlock looks around the room, in that way of his, taking everything in, analyzing, catalogazing, deducting. John wonders what Sherlock sees and promptly decides he really doesn’t want to know.

That seems to be a constant when it comes to Sherlock: John wants to know everything about him and at the same time he’s terrified of getting to know him. Maybe because he fears what he’ll find, maybe because he knows he’ll be more drawn towards him than he already is and he doesn’t know what he’ll do then: this type of  _ devotion  _ isn’t sane; wouldn’t be if Sherlock was a regular guy and it’s certainly even worse considering Sherlock’s…  _ profession. _

It can only end in heartbreak and yet--

“The bed is wide enough to fit both of us,” Sherlock says softly, bringing John back to reality. “But if you’re uncomfortable--”

“It’s fine,” John interrupts, although he doesn’t really think it is. “I don’t mind.”

Sherlock turns to face him then, a most curious expression on his face and John finds himself holding his breath, although he can’t explain why.

Eventually though, Sherlock simply turns away, his back to John as he changes for bed. John turns to face the door, getting ready for bed himself, all too aware of the sound of Sherlock getting undress, the clothes being dropped on the floor with little delicacy and even less care and John forces himself to continue facing forward, not daring to turn, not knowing what he’ll do if he does, but knowing he’ll regret it.

Good god, these next few days are going to be torture.

A terrible sweet torture indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I have a very very vague idea of how this is ending, but no real clue on how we’re going to get there so… bear with me, pretty please?  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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